Background

Before time was time, there was a choice. In this choice there were two options. There was to Be, and there was Oblivion. Being was spoken and thus everything began anew. It was in this decision where Order took its roots. But Oblivion was always ‘round the corner, ready to undo what was done. That Oblivion had many names, but it took many an eon for it to form one of its liking. You know it, and so do I, for it is one that etched into our genetic memory. The frantic, irrational anthem that invented the lock, the cross, and a healthy fear of what looms after the sunset.

It found the name Beast, and hunted us all ever since.

The purpose of this knowledge? Simple, and yet so much more complex than one can imagine. Let us suffice to say that it matters. It very much matters. But more to the point, this existential force, this Beast, would directly effect the life of a young man in a very literal way.

Ian was born a Stoker. That in itself presented a certain amount of complications from a young age. No, he wasn't a vampire. No, he wasn't rich from a trust fund. Yes, Bram was his Great-Great-Great something, just not that direct. Just enough to pass the name, and the notoriety it came with. And for a long time, the name was the closest Ian would ever get to the unusual. And eventually, the thing that exposed him.

Early life was unremarkable for the lad really. He and his twin Emily were born to Peter Stoker, notable professor and historian, and Claudette MacKenna, world traveler and hobbyist writer. His parents were never one for marriage and never did, despite being together since Jesus walked – Or the Beatles were young – whichever was first. For the first few years, they were unremarkable as far as parents were concerned. They weened and raised, and there were at least a half dozen baby books for each child. Save the occasional spanking, or yelling at childish shenanigans, it wasn't much of a bad raise up. Really, from one to seven, the worse thing that happen was the mullet Claudette decided to give him when they lived in New Jersey. The kids named him “Reb” for that, and it stuck.

Things only went downhill after the affair. Or say, affairs. The one Claudette stumbled on wasn't the first, if it progressed to the point of students at Peter's University. Perhaps it was more the scandal it caused, and the need to uproot once again that got to her. She started yelling at him more, and he started to work later, and take on more travel assignments. Which got her yelling louder about him cheating, which only made him work even later. Which got more yelling. And somewhere in between was Ian, a kiddo who seemed to not be bad enough to be a proper vent, yet not good enough to be a salvation force for his parents' not-quite-marriage. It wasn't something unheard of, and god knew he could have had it worse. But to Ian, it felt like he was standing underneath a tortoise under an elephant under the world.

They had each other though, and that was good enough for the moment. Ian was the quiet one, dry one. Emily was his blood, and his twin, and nothing at all like him. She had the bravado he lacked, cussed like a sailor, and lied like a president. He was a straight shooter, and she a boomerang. People talk about menfolk marrying women like their mothers. Ian had supposed in retrospect, that he compared a lot of his relationships to the measuring stick of his sister. They practically raised each other once they got to the eights. By then they had landed in Tallahassee, and as anyone can tell you, there ain't nothing to do there. So Emily did what any girl her age and demeanor would: She raised Hell til Hell got it's diploma was ready for college.

There was tie dying the neighbor's dog, toilet papering the principal's house, and replacing Mother Claudette's gin bottle with turpentine. But god knows she paid for that one. Didn't stop her. She just continued, sometimes with Ian as an accomplice, sometimes not. Where and how she managed to get a tattoo at age thirteen was a mystery for Ian. That one gave her a wallop from mother dearest, and a very, very long grounding. She was the one who first fell in love with family's old piano, and the one who introduced it to Ian.

Somehow, while Peter was out to Egypt on a grant, Claudette had managed to aquire an ankle bracelet for Emily, to make sure she followed the edict of the grounding. When Emily not so subtly suggested it was a gift from mum's other boyfriend on the Force, she got another six months added, as well as a nice welt. But it gave her time to explore the house. She found the piano in the closet. Within a year, she was a little Tori Amos on the thing. Amazing, if one didn't consider the fact it was all she had to do, except for, y'know, homeschooling. When Ian got home from 'normal' people's school, he would join her and she would teach him the latest thing she had picked up. Piano led onto other instruments, and by the time they were fourteen, Ian was good. And Emily, well, she was great.

And then whatever god may be decided to throw a boon. Claudette got her first book deal. Well, “Deal." It was largely self published, but hit big enough for her to go up to New York and the Northeast for a three month book tour. It meant Peter was recalled from Bangladesh, or wherever he was for his latest project. And within a few days, everything changed. He was the one who cut off the ankle bracelet from Emily, and the one who booked the kids for a show at the local tavern. “Hell,” he had said, “Had I half the talent you kids do, you think I'd'f stayed with your mother?” It was joke. Except, well, it wasn't at all. But it was his way, as was the fact he didn't actually show up to the show.

It was a hit though. And he got them another within a few days. And by a month in, the twins were shopping for a band proper. By month two, they had a good sound going. A week before Claudette was to return, “Sgt. Pepper Demoted Me," Emily and Ian's band actually was catching the ear of a local producer. Well, Emily was, but Ian and the boys were doing their part, with their makings of an Emo-Pop-Punk sound that was so popular at the time. They really would have been something too. Claudette would have none of that.

She was not to be crossed. By either Peter or Emily, for breaking her out, nor Ian for “allowing” such a thing to a happen. And she wasn't about to allow a deviant like her daughter be set free on tour before she knew how to act as young woman should. And any sense was talked right out of her when Emily not so subtly implied jealousy as the main culprit for the rant. Really, in retrospect, Peter should have argued a bit harder or longer, but his foot was already half way out the door to go to Port-au-Prince to study the history of something or another.

The piano was sold before he was even on the plane. The guitars rounded up, and any further gigs promptly canceled. The ankle bracelet was replaced, and another year was added. And Claudette warned, no, dared Emily to do something else and see what the consequences of disobeying would be.

Ian was the one to find her on the tree, swaying there in the breeze. Her note was a simple one: “Fuck you, Mum – Love E. Stoker.”

There were mourning sessions, of course. Laments about what could have been were the common place, and Ian saw more relatives than he knew properly existed. There was grief counseling, and family therapy and a bunch of other such things. Peter started staying local, at least for awhile, and Claudette found the bottle just a bit more often. Ian couldn't judge; people did what they were wont to do in grief, and he was no different. He tended to visit old haunts of his twin, and act out those little moments he could only scarcely remember.

And though he kinda wished against it, Ian slowly healed. It was never the same, not remotely, but coping was easier with time. He never did get the band back together, though, despite Claudette's newly found well wishes for such things. In fact, he scarcely did much outside the house, tending to the rote and mundane. That too changed with time, when he found a new group to hang with. Or rather, she found him, and brought him to the group.

Her name was Maggie. And she was a witch.

No, literally. See was a magic using witch, spells and all. Sure, she wasn't particularly great with them, but she had the spark. Ian had experienced crushes before, and the pre-teen romances that were all too common in the suburbs. She was something else entirely, something that managed to quell the anger and grief pretty well, and make him feel something he had never before in his young life. For all her magic, her most powerful spell was being a pretty, interesting young woman actually interested in him.

It was actually the name that got her attention. The name Stoker carried a lot of weight in her circles, and for the longest time, she had meant it only to be a friendship. It wasn't that Ian was a bad guy or nothing. He was too human for her tastes. Mundane, damaged goods surely, but without a tinge of real excitement, neohuman or other wise. But he was a good guy, and a blind woman could tell he was more than interested in her. So she decided that he could use a little spicing up. She took it upon herself to to make him worthy of a Stoker title.

Now never say that claiming Maggie a witch implied that she was a talented one. Oh, with time perhaps, but she was young then, and so convinced of her own talent. And she knew enough just to be dangerous enough. She knew about a crone in the 'glades. This particular Crone happened to be in possession of a particular artifact. Rumors were it could give it powers to those without them. It didn't take much to convince Ian to do an all nigher to get down south – just a crook of a finger and a smile. And then they were off, to achieve Ian's destiny, Maggie thought.

The Everglades isn't a place for the faint of heart. And not in the heart of the night, where the dark magic looms. Even with the modern technology of a car, the road ahead watch nothing but pitch, bathed in a fine mist. It was as if nature was sending out a warning. Ian thought hard about backing out, but Maggie was sure of the path, sure as sure that if these were portents, they were ones of meaning. When they came to that old pine wood shack at the edge of the swamp, nary a sound broke the silence of the full moon night. Frogs dared not croak, and crickets saved their tune for another day. The world held it's breath as Maggie knocked knocked once upon the door, and again, and thrice.

The Crone answered, despite the mist and despite the hour. She was dressed as if for a to-do, and greeted the couple as if they were old friends, as opposed to strangers doing a great disservice. The Crone offered tea, and made small talk with the two, a small knowing smile on her face all the while. When Maggie finally broached the subject of the artifact, the Crone was not surprised. In fact she had been expecting such - For it had been told of a day when one would come to destroy the artifact. Destroy? The thought boggled Maggie's young mind, equal parts to the reason of such waste, and the inability for the Crone to do it herself. It was a test, she decided, and she knew just how to pass it.

Ian, meanwhile just tried to take it all in. Sure, he had been hanging out with Maggie's crew for awhile, but the occult, even neohumanity was something he knew next to nothing about. He made small talk as he could, but otherwise kept silent, never really at ease, equally for the setting and the fear that saying anything could cause a calamity. EIther turning the pair of teens into… he didn't know, a toad or something, or even worse - something that'd alienate himself from the good graces of his crush.

To Maggie, however, Ian might as well not have been there. Her focus was on an opening to activate the artifact. The Crone was focused on Stoker, filmed eyes seeming to gaze straight into him. Whatever she saw brought on a smile, and occasional murmurs of: "He will do just fine." So focused was she, that the incantations murmured under the breath of Maggie went largely unnoticed. It was the soft tinkle of cracking glass that brought the Crone from her reverie. By the time she screamed for the young witch to stop, it was too late. Maggie spoke the last line, and sat there self satisfied as the reverberation of occult power washed through the room. Dishes shattered and windows opened of their own accord. What little light there was died, and an ill wind blew into the house. For the space of a blink, the world felt like it was holding its breath. And then the artifact shattered.

Where there was three, a fourth loomed. Tall enough to have to hunch in the cottage, it was all of the stuff of a mans nightmare, and yet something so abstract that the mind couldn't quite comprehend. Years later, all Ian could recall was a shadow in wolf's clothing, the color of shadow and five shades deeper, save for the ruby burn of the eyes. It had no mouth, nor fangs, nor claws, and yet it had all of those in his imagination. It had everything he feared, tangible or not. He looked at the smouldering eyes of the Beast, and those ember eyes looked straight back. And he knew then of his imminent demise, for the women might have well not been in the room. It hungered, and as Ian found his lungs again for a final yell, it attacked.

It bit him. It tried to consume him. It fed upon his innards until there was nothing left but a suit, and then it invited itself inside. For Ian it felt that way, like every pain he had experienced before in his life was just some pleasant walk in the park. And that was before he began to turn; muscles betrayed him and tore themselves apart, only to re-knit into something stronger… more alien. Bones broke and became steel, and teeth cracked to give way to fangs. The Beast had him, literal tooth to literal nail, and when it was done, Stoker was something else entirely, marked by an ancient force. If not for the Crone, he might have been lost completely. Instead she drove the thing away for a time, leaving behind something once human, eight feel tall, jet black, and in an amalgamation of man and wolf.

It took him hours to recover, and when he did, he found himself as he had been… but with something entrenched beneath the surface of the skin. The Crone was long since gone and the house abandoned, save for himself and Maggie. She just looked at him for a long time, almost fearful. The drive back up to Tallahassee was spent without a single word spoken.

It didn't take long for the word to spread to Maggie's friends, and friends of friends, and so on and so forth. They called it the Bite Heard 'round the 'burb. And while his body went through a new hell, Maggie found herself in a new light. The girl of a wolf. Never mind the struggle of it. Never mind that it wasn't what he wanted at all. Well, she minded, perhaps more than Ian would ever know, but she was young still, and it felt good to get the attention – and the awe at orchestrating such events. And with the notoriety of the subculture, came the boys. Bad boys, goths, and rebels alike. And as the days became weeks, with Ian more focused on a cure than embracing his new situation, Maggie… well, gave way.

When Ian decided to leave home, to travel to find a cure, she told him of her wishes to stay behind. Not that she didn't like him - she did - but she was young still, and there were others, and a half dozen other excuses. She wasn't ready to deal with life yet, and he couldn't have one until he dealt with the Beast inside. So he left and began his wander for the cure.

He was given a name in New Orleans: Le Nouveau Noir was the word under the tongues of those familiar with the legends. The New Black. The Onyx Wolf had taken to life again. He was chased out when livestock was found dead. In Arizona he was taught a modicum of control from a Spirit Warrior, but had to flee by night when a hitchhiker was found dead. In LA he learned he was not destined to die easily. He was collateral to a drive-by there, whilst in a hunt for a mistress of Santeria. It took a lot of effort just to get out of the ambulance, and even more out of the city.

His wanderlust ended for a time in Vancouver, BC. His uncle Theo owned a bar there, and despite Ian's fathers university accreditations, Theo was more cognizant of their family's history. When the boy found himself road weary, his uncle gave him a home, no questions asked. Well, a few questions, but after hearing Ian's stories, he agreed not to let Ian's parents know. Not yet at least. In exchange for room and board, Ian worked at the bar by night and spent his days combing through the Vancouver occult scene in search of answers, or a cure. And for a few weeks, it was alright. He knew though that it could not last. Sooner or later something horrible would happen.

He thought that day had come when a small group of representatives came. Before he could flee, they cornered him, and explained that they were from a school in the East. One called Steranko, which specialized in helping people like them. They told him his uncle had called them, and that they knew what hunted him. They promised at the institute they had the tools to hide him, and train him. But first, they had to apologize for one thing. When he asked what the one thing was, he felt a sharp pain on his back.

They tranquilized him, ten times the dosage of something his size, even transformed. It was the only way, for the Beast had been stalking him, tracking his conscious mind, waiting for a moment to finish consuming him. It was the one that ate the livestock in New Orleans, and killed a man in Arizona. It had almost found him in LA, and had found him Vancouver.

And so he ended up here at the Institute, a year to the day after the bite. Beast in body, Beast in hunting, a paper cut heart, and more baggage than rightly proper for a kid so young. But it's the last good thing that could ever happen to him. After all, who else can teach him how to turn that pain into good? To become a righteous individual, and perhaps one day, a hero.

Personality

Take a youth who’s not exactly had an easy time of life. Mix in a touch of personal tragedy, and a slew of commitment issues. That’s the base recipe for a young man Reb. Even before the Bite, Ian had a lot of anger floating just underneath the surface, like vinegar to oil.

In many ways, the Bite made dealing a lot easier. Instead of avoiding the nasty things he’d rather deny, Ian had to face them and decide what type of person he wanted to be. The anger’s still there. Very much so, sitting there looking like a shot to a thirsty drunk. But he’s all too cognizant of it now, knowing to drink it is to let out the Beast inside him. So he vents in any way he can.

On the surface, he is all calm. Y’know, the guy who always had the word for edgewise moments, often drier than most deserts. Even from a young age, he had trouble tolerating things he found stupid, and voicing that opinion despite the repercussions. The wit perhaps stemmed from that; the Straight-Man act that made folks wonder whether he was serious or just kidding. Just enough to disarm what could normally be a volatile situation, given his mouth. That’s not to say that the young man is all piss and vinegar. He may not hold his tongue, but he won’t go out his way to make someone feel unwelcome because a difference of opinion. Unless they really, really deserve it. But most people don’t, and usually that dry humor is just that, with little true maliciousness behind it.

He’s a lover of the arts - music and poetry, preferably good music and bad poetry. He found the former with his sister and never looked back. The later came well after she was gone, and very shortly before the Bite. It is the purest outlet he can have. He speaks the truth as he sees it, except when it comes to himself. He cannot express himself eloquently, he feels, unless it’s through verse or sonnet. He’s revels in the music when he can, even now. But the poetry is kept in a padlock chest, right next to his other Deep Dark Secrets (TM). Not from any danger to the world, mind. He just feels his love stuff is too darn cheesy, and his angry verses are too dang… emo. And odds are he’s right on both of them. Good music, bad poetry.

He lost his sister at a formative age, in the worst possible way. His parents were borderline abusive, and full time absent. His last serious fling thought he was “Too Human” (Perhaps implying “Too Boring”) and botched an attempt to make him goth-awesome, resulting in his current clawed state. To say he has commitment issues is probably an understatement. Anger might be Ian's gin, but the commitment issues would be his grape juice on the verge of turning wine. He keeps everybody at arm's reach, as much for his own sake as for theirs. It makes it easier when things go bad.

The problem is that when they get through, they really get through. He has a tendency to fall hard. He’s the friend for life type in the best of times. At the worst, he'll read into the nature of the relationship far too much. It’s just that way with him. Black and white, with little room for shades of gray.

And then there is the Fear. He was once afraid to die - the option that would have solved a lot of people a lot of problems. It’s still there, but it isn’t his greatest heart-stopper anymore. He’s afraid of the Beast, the thing that still is out there. The thing that may well come claim him one day, if he continues to insist denying it. He’s afraid that he’ll get complacent, and hurt people because he couldn’t keep things in check. And he’s afraid he’ll just end up liking the hurting anyway. That he was Bitten for a reason, and he really is just as horrible as the other side of him.

Oh, and most of all, he’s afraid he's going mad.

No, wait. He’s afraid he's already there.

He hears voices: Whispers from his dead twin sister, taunts from his ex, and blasphemies from things he’d rather not give a name. And that little devil on his shoulder, that Old Black Beast inside him, well she whispers too. And at the most inopportune times. It could be the poison in his veins messing with his head. Or perhaps the whole mythos - the whole reason for why the Beast exists is simply bullshit; little more than the fragment of his imagination. That his powers are simply genetic, and he’s doing everything out of some twisted little power game.

And for the life of him, he’s afraid that insanity’s the better of the two options. For a nutjob can be put into the asylum. What do you do with the New Black?

'Ian, the New Black': So named Le Nouveau Noir by a Mojo Lady in New Orleans, Ian Stoker has become a creature with both characteristics of man and demonic wolf. Though he has since learned to shift between the two forms, the urges of his darker half are always there. Rage is a very legitimate concern, and giving into anger could cause him to lash out blindly against friends and strangers alike. The dark taint of the transformation constantly whispers into his ear, making him question his own sanity. If one looks closely enough, they may even notice an unnatural tendril or two slithering underneath the skin. Oh, and when he turns, he kinda transforms into nine foot wolf-monster. He's in it for the long haul as well, with no cure in sight.'I Wonder About (Maggie)': Ian thought he loved a girl once. And this girl really, really, kinda sorta liked him back. She also was the one that got him turned into a werewolf. She's a witch, and her name is Maggie. She's still around, in a constant bid for power and status and other such things. The problem is, no matter how ever much Ian is angry at her, he's not quite over her. Normally that'd be just your average teen angst but he's not a normal teenager, and neither is she. One never knows if she'll ever call up again for the tiniest of favors from a guy as super keen and cool as Ian. All said with the cutest of voices of course.'Don't Mess With A Beast, Mr. Noir': The thing that transformed Ian into the New Black is still out there. Worse yet, it is still very hungry, and Stoker is looking like the finest Filet Mignon on the planet. The creature known as the Beast is ages old, if one listens to the stories. It might not be the most intelligent, but it is possessed of a very dangerous and basic cunning for the hunt. So far, Ian has managed to elude the creature largely thanks to the efforts of the Institute. But one would imagine it only a matter of time before the thing finds him and makes life hell for him and his friends.'True Confessions of The Crone': The Crone was an old witchy lady in the Everglades who owned a house. In this house was an artifact that kept the Beast trapped for years. This lady also claimed it Ian's task to one day destroy the Beast. Ian hasn't seen her since he was transformed into a werewolf. She seemed to know quite a bit about the creature, far more than all of his research combined. Ostensibly, she is the key to him being rid of the curse. Problem is that he has no idea where she is, or how well she'll take to him being at least part of the creature that he was tasked to destroy.